


He Jests at Scars

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Grantaire Rants, and potentially triggering attitudes about it, kinkmeme fill, self injury, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has many more scars than the visible one on his face, and he has strong feelings about all of them.</p>
<p>Jehan doesn't know about Grantaire's other scars, but he knows about his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Jests at Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Les Mis Anon Kink Meme. Prompt can be found here: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13488.html?thread=10760880&
> 
> I went with a modern AU because I assumed that's what was wanted given the nature of the prompt, and because self-injury as practiced in Europe in the 19th century tended to take different forms than it does today.

It was a typical Thursday evening for the Friends of the ABC.  Official meetings were held on Tuesdays; Thursdays were the nights when many of them would get together simply to enjoy each others’ company.  This week, Courfeyrac was out with Marius on an errand he had declined to explain to Enjolras in any detail, and Feuilly was attending one of his evening classes in computer science, but the rest of the group was assembled as usual.  Enjolras and Combeferre, in spite of the absence of Courfeyrac, were seated together at a table, currently discussing organizational details of the next group meeting.  Bahorel, Bossuet, and Joly were at another table, with the latter two enthusiastically engaged in a game of War in which the advantage shifted back and forth so frequently that it seemed as if it might never have a winner.  Bahorel, too, had initially been in the game, but had lost the last of his cards ten minutes ago and was now leaning back, his chair balanced precariously on its two back legs, and chatting with Grantaire, who was seated at one end of a nearby couch. 

“This one actually wasn’t from a fight,” he gestured to his left arm, “it was from a tractor accident.  But what about you, Grantaire?  I’ve never heard the story about the one on your cheek.”

“What, this old thing?”  Grantaire’s facial expression seemed mildly irritated, but his voice was casual.  “That’s because there’s no story to tell.  I fell out of a tree.  Not the same incident, by the way, in which I would later fall out of the same tree and break my arm.  Dangerous tree, apparently, but it had the best damn view of the whole park.  Sadly, it’s not there anymore; they cut it down.  I blame myself entirely.  I fell out of that tree so many times that my father used to say I was doing it to get attention.  As if I wanted the kind of attention you get from having a scar on your cheek!  I’m not some academic fencer at Heidelberg, I didn’t do this shit on purpose.  And if I ever did, you can bet I wouldn’t cut my face.  Having a facial scar is awful, it’s too hard to hide.  The Emperor Hadrian hid the scars on his face by wearing a beard.  Maybe I should grow one.  Ha, I say that like I could grow a beard even if I tried.  The rest of my body’s so hairy, I’m practically a bear, but I can’t get enough on my cheeks to look presentable.  I’d blame fucked-up genetics, but my face clearly doesn’t take after my follically-endowed father’s.  Not that there’s anything wrong with not being follically-endowed.”  A good-natured laugh issued from the general direction of Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet.  Grantaire gave a small pause of acknowledgement before continuing, “Suffice it to say that I won’t be covering up my scar with hair.  In fact, I don’t intend to cover it at all.  Why should I have to?  Why should anyone hide their scars?  Because society is uncomfortable with them?  People don’t like to see evidence that Bad Things Happen.  They don’t like to see it, and yet, when they do see it, they love to gawk at it.  If they’re not looking at you with disgust, like they’re personally offended by the fact that you dare to show your wounds in public, then they’re looking at you with pity.  These are the sorts of people who will try to make you feel better about yourself by telling you that scar tissue is your body’s way of healing, a demonstration of the fact that, for whatever you went through, you’re now stronger than before.  Scars aren’t a sign of ugliness, they’ll say, but a sign of strength, a commemoration that you’ve survived.  And why should I want to commemorate my survival?  It doesn’t get rid of whatever shitty thing happened to give me the scar in the first place.  A scar is still a reminder of what happened.”

Jehan is seated at the opposite end of the couch from Grantaire, but can’t seem to keep himself from listening with rapt attention.  He’s not quite triggered, but he’s definitely on-edge and fidgeting with the wrist of his right shirt sleeve, alternately twisting it and tugging it down.  He knows he should probably leave, or at least invest himself in a different conversation, but he’s hypersensitive to the implications of what Grantaire’s saying right now, which makes it incredibly hard to tune out.

“Scar-as-metaphor is total bullshit, anyway.  If your body can heal, why can’t the rest of you?  That’s the implication.  People expect you to, praise you for ‘getting better,’ when they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.  They’ll talk about being beautiful in spite of scars, or even more obnoxiously, ‘because of’ them.  They want to force all stories into narratives of healing and it-gets-better, when that’s not always the fucking case.  If you’re not the model, feel-good ‘survivor,’ they don’t want to hear about it and you have no right to let your scars show.  Fuck that.  Life isn’t pretty.  Scars don’t always lead to positive circumstances, and they sure as hell don’t come from them.  They’re not something we should have to hide, no, but they aren’t something to be proud of.  Scars are ugly.”

Jehan had been right; he really should’ve stopped listening long before getting to this point.  His thumb now slipped underneath his shirt sleeve to brush against the abrasions there, which were themselves in various states of scabbing and healing.  Was he truly ugly?  Grantaire was talking about the mark on his face, he knew nothing of the scars Jehan had, and so Jehan shouldn’t take the contents of the rant personally.  Grantaire had no idea what it meant to have scars that were self-inflicted.  His words intended to soothe himself more than to mock Grantaire, Jehan muttered gently, “He jests at scars that never felt a wound.”

Whatever his intentions, they didn’t keep Jehan from being overheard.  Grantaire turned his attentions on to him.  “That kind of attitude,” he gestured at Jehan, “is part of the fucking problem!”  Jehan did his best to shrink back into the couch, giving his shirt sleeve an especially violent tug, but he couldn’t halt what was coming.  “People will insist on seeing scars before they believe in wounds.  Quoting Shakespeare?  Let’s talk about Coriolanus.  The citizens were so insistent on seeing his battle scars that when he finally got pissed off and refused to show them, they withdrew their political support.  People hate seeing scars, but they want evidence.  They want you to justify your claim to suffering.  You think I shouldn’t be talking about the issue because you haven’t seen my credentials?  Wait ‘til the autopsy—my scars will be on my liver.”  Grantaire pointedly lifted his glass and took another great swallow.  “Yes, scars of one’s own contrivance.  I bring you back to the fencers at Heidelberg.  They thought their dueling scars were a mark of courage and class.  Stupidity!  Even worse, though, were those students who weren’t even fencers, but who scarred their own faces to gain false esteem.  There’s no honor in self-mutilation!  Inflicting scars on purpose is vanity.  And self-imposed suffering for the sake of vanity, there’s no greater ugliness than that.  I‘ve already said that scars are ugly, but self-inflicted scars are the most repulsive of all.”  If anyone noticed Grantaire’s fingertips digging into the flesh of his thigh as he spoke, or the barely-detectable outline of a bandage wrapped around his leg underneath his jeans, they assigned it no meaning.  He drained the remaining contents of his glass in two gulps, then announced, “And now, I have to piss!”  With that, Grantaire stood and headed off in the direction of the bathroom.

Jehan did not stir.  He’d barely made any response the entire time, simply staring down at his own hands tightly fisted in his lap until Grantaire had evidently forgotten he’d been addressing him at all.  At this point, he didn’t care if his friends found him repulsive—he needed nothing more than to retrieve the unassuming pencil case from the very back of his desk drawer, take out his utility knife and some gauze, and paint his arms red.  All he had to do now was to come up with some reason to excuse himself, some pretext to be alone.

Jehan was startled from his thoughts by a gentle hand resting itself upon his shoulder.  He finally raised his eyes from his lap to see Combeferre, who was looking down at him with a kind, if concerned, smile.  “Would you like to watch a movie with me and Enjolras?” he asked, his voice soft. 

Part of Jehan wanted to protest, to do what he’d made up his mind to do, but some small, hopeful part of him felt calmed by that voice, by that suggestion.  “Right now?”

“Yes,” Combeferre nodded.  “We’d really like it if you did.”

Jehan’s eyes widened then.  Was Combeferre knowingly offering him a distraction?  No, he couldn’t be; he couldn’t know Jehan’s thoughts.  Well, whether he did or he didn’t, that same small part of Jehan was grateful.  The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a smile that, while weak, was genuine.  “All right.”  It could wait.


End file.
